


Primal Scene

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Vanilla Kink, Virginity Kink, dreambubbles make everything possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mommy's not hurting Daddy, don't worry.</p><p>For the "virginity/celibacy" square on my <b>kink_bingo</b> <a href="http://gloss.dreamwidth.org/125904.html">card</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primal Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by G. <3

>   
> All that we find in the prehistory of neuroses is that a child catches hold of this phylogenetic experience where his own experience fails him. He fills in the gaps in individual truth with prehistoric truth; he replaces occurrences in his own life by occurrences in the life of his ancestors. (Freud, SE 17:97)

Aboard the battleship, they can hardly do more than gaze at each other, full of wonder, not quite believing this was happening.

By the time they dine at the abandoned castle, they have recovered their voices.

"You're not a _virgin!_ " She's laughing, head back, shoulders lifting, hair blowing before her eyes. "You can't be serious!"

Egbert sets down his drink. He believes, always has, in full honesty and frankness; no relationship can be founded on lies, omissions, or fibs.

Nevertheless, he finds himself momentarily unable to speak. He must master this well of shame that is swamping rational thought.

She stops laughing, frowning slightly instead, and passes a hand over her marvelous, cloud-bright hair. "You're serious?"

He nods. "I lived with my mother for my entire life before becoming a single father. I barely had time to breathe, let alone..."

He finds it impossible to complete that sentence.

She tosses back the second half of her martini before grasping his hand. She turns his palm up, draws intricate spirals on the tender skin with one perfect pink nail. With her eyes lowered, her voice husky, she says, "Oh, you make time, believe me."

"Perhaps," Egbert says, his own voice gone froggy and unfamiliar, and he curls his fingers in hers, tugging lightly, "perhaps I was just waiting for the right person."

Her nails are sharp enough to sting, not so sharp as to cut, but sitting there, holding her hand, he wishes suddenly to be sliced to ribbons, flayed open to her gaze, to her touch, helplessly, thoroughly.

*

She had always joked that living in the suburbs would be indistinguishable from death.

She was, it turns out, absolutely correct.

Egbert's dreambubble is a manicured suburban paradise, trees in every yard, every house gleaming white, where cars always make way for street hockey and no one ever locks their doors.

"Honey, I'm home." He closes the front door, doffing his hat and hanging it on the coat tree before setting down his briefcase, shrugging off his jacket, and loosening his tie.

In the study, she waits for him with a freshly-poured Scotch, wearing impossibly high heels, a string of perfect pearls, and not very much else. As he enters, unbuttoning his collar and rolling up his sleeves, she reclines in his armchair, one leg hooked over the arm, soft evening light playing over her bare skin.

"Here, let me --" Standing, an inch or so taller than he, she makes short work of his collar, flings his tie over his shoulder, and pushes him back into the couch, hard enough that he bounces as he lands. Just twice, and then she is straddling his lap, opening his shirt with a Tommy-gun rat-a-tat-tat of popping buttons, licking the hollow of his throat. "Welcome home."

His breath comes fast and shallow as the flush blooms and spreads across his cheeks, down his throat, over his chest.

When he tries to speak, she kisses him, shushing as she pulls back to sit on his knees and study him. She pushes his shirt up over his shoulders and draws curlicues through his chest hair. His erection is already half-visible under his trousers; he bites his lip and tries to shift, to hide it, when her gaze lingers there and she smiles.

"Shh," she murmurs and draws one finger down his fly. He holds still, stomach muscles taut, and only exhales when her touch lifts. "Good man."

He closes his eyes at her praise. His eyelashes are long and soft, beautiful.

Indeed, he is a wonderful man, good of heart and broad of shoulder.

"Just waiting for the right person, were you?" she asks and his eyes snap open at the sound of her voice.

"Yes," he says. His voice is thick, but fervent. "Yes, exactly."

He strains upward, trying to kiss her, but she holds him down, hands planted firmly on his chest. "Who knows what to do here, hmm?"

He lowers his eyes for a moment. "I know how to --"

"Yes," she says, soothingly, "of course you do."

Over the years, he had been sure to masturbate twice a week -- Sundays and Wednesdays -- because regular emission is integral to maintaining optimal mangrit.

When he'd confessed _that_ to her, she had to struggle not to ask him if he'd told his son exactly that. (He had, of course, and used Powerpoint to boot. But they don't talk about the kids. Even if death has rendered their absence into something vaguely-felt, the memory of a toothache more than any current pain, they do not try their luck. Not with that.)

"Tell me," she continues, circling her fingertips around his nipples, tangling and tugging the hair, "what you thought about that. Every Wednesday, every Sunday."

His grip tightens on her waist. "You."

She rolls her eyes.

He exhales roughly and pulls her against him, turning his head to press his cheek into her cleavage. Her skin is slightly damp, almost chilly compared to how fevered he is. "You," he says again, his eyes fluttering closed, "And breasts. Your scent, your skin."

"Better," she replies and arches her back as his hands travel restlessly up and down her back, her arms, and, finally, her breasts. She pushes into his touch, biting her lip when he struggles with her bra's closures, bouncing harder when he finally succeeds and her breasts spill into his palms.

He hums, or moans, the sound difficult to identify, more vibration than noise. It splashes and tingles over her skin, into her nerves. She makes short work of his fly and spreads open the fabric, leaning back to watch as she pulls him out.

He goes still, fingers on her nipples, then shudders hard at her touch. She firms her grasp, thumb hooking over the head, and smiles. He looks back with bleary, unseeing eyes. Wrapping his arms around her waist, as if he's drowning, he buries his face against her neck as she shifts and kneels, raising herself over him, then pushing down slowly. So slowly, agonizingly, clenching around him, that he jerks backward, grunting painfully, then grabs her hips and shoves up to meet her.

"Just like that," she says, moving over him, cheeks flushing and breasts bouncing. "Harder."

Sweat breaks out at his hairline, salting her lips when she kisses him; the change in angle wrenches a gasp and another desperate clutch from him. His hips seize, and jerk, pumping without any discernible rhythm. She drives down on him, knees bowing the cushions, her knuckles whitening.

When his mouth drops open into a twisted **O** and his head falls back, she fucks him faster and bites at his throat.

"Good job," she's saying as he comes. The blaze of pleasure lighting him up from within, the hoarse cry muffled into her breasts, are unmistakable. "I'm so proud of you."

[end]  



End file.
